


oh so good, oh so fine

by deadlybride



Series: it started with the kinks [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, M/M, Panty Kink, Season/Series 04, Slight D/s Elements, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zachariah gave them their memories back, but he didn't erase what had happened in the time they were other people. Dean Smith made a mistake, and Dean Winchester--well. He's still living with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh so good, oh so fine

**Author's Note:**

> So what happened was, I read a fic and was really disappointed with the ending. Like, actually mad about it. But instead of working through that, I accidentally wrote 7500 words of Smith&Wesson/Wincest sad pantykink. What has happened with my life. (Why aren't I writing on my very long WIPs?)
> 
> This takes place immediately after the end of "It's A Terrible Life", but before "The Monster at the End of this Book."
> 
> Title from Well-Respected Man, by the Kinks, of course.

The world's colors go strange, everything bright and clear turning a cold, muddled grey. Dean blinks, hard, doesn't understand what's happening for a second. His bruises ache.

Mr. Adler is watching him.

"What the hell?" Dean says, and then everything comes back.

He's hungry, and his bruises ache, but it's worse than that. Zachariah's smirk makes him want to do extremely violent things involving his suspenders and this fucking stupid tie, but even as he's being told _it's in your blood_ and _this is your destiny_ , he's thinking: Sam, oh God. Oh, God, what have they done?

"It's a gift," Zachariah says, and Dean turns around, but even that little shift in his weight hurts, hurts more now that he remembers his own last name.

"Are you ready to stand up and be who you really are?" Zachariah says, and Dean doesn't look at him, doesn't say a word.

 

Sam's cubicle downstairs is empty, but for a dark monitor and a shattered phone. The white-faced yellowshirts stammer out something about Sam going all Office Space, about him stalking out of the building and throwing his headset on the floor, and yeah, Dean can see that.

He doesn't have his phone. Not his real phone, Dean Winchester's phone. He walks out into the parking garage in half a daze, every step jolting things he can't think about. The Prius is sitting right where he left it—and everything in him doesn't want to drive the plastic, ridiculous little thing, but how is he—what is he supposed to do?

He goes back to his apartment ( _his,_ he thinks, almost appalled, _where he picked out furniture when he moved to town, where he thought about upgrading his refrigerator and was going to order new cushions_ ), takes the elevator up to his floor. Mrs. Fraser smiles as she passes in the hall and he wants to scream. He nearly fumbles his keys twice trying to get inside his place, and once he's in he slams the door closed behind him, presses his forehead up against its cool surface. Just for a minute, just so he can think.

He turns around, and Sam is sitting at his dining table.

"Hey," he says, after Dean has done a remarkable job of not shrieking.

Sam's jaw is clenched tight, his hands fisted together on the tabletop. He's wearing a white undershirt, the yellow IT polo slung over the chair next to him. "You remember?" Dean manages.

A pause. The sun's high and bright outside, filtering in through the balcony windows, lighting up every plane of Sam's face. "Sam Winchester," Sam says, finally. "Good to meet you."

Dean huffs a laugh, despite everything, but he keeps his back to the door.

 

Turns out Bobby has the Impala, and their duffle bags, and all their salt and guns and knives, and he's halfway between relieved and furious when Sam calls him from their stolen car, three hundred miles to Sioux Falls and counting.

"Angels don't leave a note, I guess," Dean says, desperate to lighten the mood.

Sam grunts. He looks healthy, when Dean risks a glance across the seat. Tanned, unbruised, broader than ever. "Almost a whole month," he says, after a mile or two has passed.

Dean changes lanes, doesn't say anything. Three and a half weeks working in an office, happy as he could be. No memory of hunting, of his family. No memory of forty years in the flaming dark, Alastair smiling at him through bloodied teeth. He wonders how Zachariah had done it—had he scooped Dean right out of his hospital bed, mended all his broken pieces with a minor miracle? Had he taken Sam out of the waiting room—or from somewhere else, some dank meeting place, plucking him from the arms of that bitch of a demon?

There's a Kinks song stuck in his head on loop, making him grind his teeth as the happy little tune runs in maddening circles. He flips on the radio, finds Aerosmith after a few tries. Steven Tyler's wailing _run away, run away from the pain_ , and Sam snorts, turns his head to stare out the grimy window at passing traffic. Dean shifts his weight on the seat, grinds his teeth until they ache. He drives.

 

The thing is, they didn't know. How were they supposed to know? (That's no excuse. Dean understands this. He tries to imagine explaining it away, to Bobby or Castiel or, fuck, to Dad, and he knows the defense would crumble into dust in his mouth.) They didn't know who they were, and even if Dean Smith was ashamed, right there in his chest where it hurt to breathe, how could he know the damage he was doing to Dean Winchester? How could he know that he'd be ruining Dean even more?

They'd destroyed the ghost and even then they were arguing, because that was what they did. They argued and bickered and, yeah, they worked well together, but that tension, it wasn't going away.

"You don't know me, pal," Dean Smith had said, and Sam Wesson had stared at him with something like betrayal on his face. He'd walked out the door, and Dean had sat there in his battered suit and his ergonomic chair, and then he'd dashed out of the office and raced down the stairs and met Sam at the bottom of them, and Sam had turned around with his mouth a grim slash across his face and Dean had backed him into the corner of the lobby, behind the plants where no security cameras could see, and he'd sucked in a breath and he'd leaned up and then—

There was no ghost anymore, and the security guy was dead, and so there was no one to interrupt if they stumbled into the first-floor bathrooms, if Sam pushed Dean up against the door and made him beg, breathless and shocked at himself. So if Sam had, and if Dean had turned around when Sam demanded it, if he'd pushed down his pants when Sam demanded it, if he'd gone a bright, mortified red when Sam saw—when Sam put his hands—well. It was something that had happened to Dean Smith, not to Dean Winchester. There was so much more Dean Winchester was going to burn for, this should barely count. But it does, Dean knows. It does, because he remembers it.

 

There's a werewolf in Omaha, a vengeful spirit in Cheyenne. They take care of the bones and the bodies, and they don't talk about it. Sam's still stronger than he should be, but for the most part, at least, he stays where Dean can see him. No disappearing off to a date with a demon, and Dean guesses he should be grateful for that. For his own part, Dean walks a careful line between too shitfaced hammered to function and just drunk enough that he can sleep, sometimes without even dreaming. It's really all he can hope for, at this point.

In Vernal, Utah, there's a rawhead in a basement. Dean carries the kids out, this time, and when he gets back the rawhead is dead—extremely so, and yet Sam keeps going. He has to yell Sam's name twice before he stops, shoulders heaving. "Ain't getting any deader," Dean says, and Sam shoves the corpse away, watches as it dissolves down to the disgusting, foul viscera that will be all the authorities find.

"I hate rawheads," Sam says. It echoes a little weirdly, shivers around the basement, among the canning jars and dusty shelves. Dean can't respond, because he's remembering the last rawhead. Sam's desperate, despairing face. This time, when Sam looks up at him, his eyes are shadowed, and Dean can't read the expression there. He wonders if he should even try.

 

They stop by Bobby's house and he greets them at the door, says, "I half expected you to have been touched by an angel again by now," dry as he always is, but Dean can't smile about it. Sam does, grins as he claps Bobby on the shoulder, and Dean follows the two of them into the house, feels like a stranger as Bobby hands Sam a beer, as Bobby catches Sam up on a possible ghost-hunt in Kentucky. He can't smile because he still dreams about it.

He had an apartment. He had a job, where people relied on him, where he shared a secretary who smiled at him every morning when he came in, and looked like she meant it. He'd known his place in the world and what he was expected to do in it. And yeah, it might have been stifling. He might have felt a little weird in his skin sometimes, might have looked around and thought, _I don't know this place._ But so what? So Dean Smith hadn't been perfect, hadn't lived on an idyllic little island of happiness, hadn't had his shit quite as squared away as he'd wanted people to think. At least it had been better than this.

Dean drops down to sit on Bobby's ancient couch, dust pluming up around him when he hits the lumpy cushion. Sam's turned away from him. He gestures with his beer as he says something to Bobby, and Dean bites his lips between his teeth, watches Sam's shoulders moving under his shirt. Sam looks like he doesn't have a care in the world.

 _There are plenty of fates worse than yours_ , Zachariah had said, and now Dean wants to ask him, what the fuck did he think he was playing at? He can't imagine how this could be worse.

 

In Carbondale they hustle pool and cards, working separately at opposite ends of a dim, redneck bar, and by the time Dean's won enough for a few nights in a motel the waitress is eyeing him. He drains his whiskey and she's there as if by magic. "Want another?" she says, but she's asking something else.

For a moment, he has no idea what to say. He leans on his cue and swirls the last ice cube around his empty glass with his other hand, and he thinks about it. He could take her into the back room and get on his knees, get his hands and mouth under that little black skirt and have her biting her lip bloody before she even got his name. Or he could bring her back to the motel, spread her on her back on his bed, fuck her long and slow and pull the orgasms out of her until she cried—but they wouldn't be alone in the motel, would they. He looks over the top of her head, and Sam's there, watching them. At a glance, it looks like he's doing his part, the pile of cash higher on his side of the table than on his opponents', but he's not paying any attention to poker right now.

"Honey?" the girl says, a little uncertain. Dean drags his eyes back to her, to her pretty blue eyes and her bow of a mouth, and hears his voice as if from a distance say, "No, darlin', just bring me a beer," and in another life it would have been flirting, but here, now—

"All right, then," she says, but by the time he catches the disappointment there she's already gone. He's watching Sam, a dozen yards away and his face half in the dark, but he feels for a second like he could reach out and Sam would be right there, ready.

When the girl gets back he drains the beer in a few long swallows, then throws down a twenty as a tip. He gets outside and breathes in deep gulps of the cool, rain-soaked air. He's leaning on the Impala when Sam comes out, and he's braced for something—anything—but Sam just shows him a wad of cash, says, "How far to Pineville?" and what else is Dean expecting? What more can there be?

 

Dean dreams, and he dreams he's Dean Smith. He dreams he's in his apartment, standing at the island in his kitchen and cooking something, slicing vegetables with a sharp knife, when big hands close over his hips. He dreams that the hands push his shirt up, thumbs sliding in with hard pressure on either side of his spine, and he folds, elbows down on either side of his cutting board. He dreams that the hands unbuckle his belt, and that his slacks drop to the floor. He dreams that long, strong fingers slip over his pelvis, slide along his hips until they tuck into cool, slick satin, and then somehow the dream twists and he's on his back and Alastair's looking down at him, smiling, saying, _what do you want to do today, Dean?_

When he wakes up, he's hard, but he's shaking, too. Sam's a big dark lump in his bed, on his side with his back turned to Dean, and Dean bites the side of his hand, breathes hard through his nose until he's sure he's not going to vomit. He'd wonder what he's done to deserve this, but there's no point. He knows.

 

With how fucked everything is, Dean's sure Bobby can be forgiven for screwing this up. Demon-signs are all over the place, black smoke trailing through the air over half the country, so it's impossible to tell when they're real and when not. So now, when the ghost isn't really a ghost, when it turns out it's some demon dick manipulating the townsfolk and making them dance, that's not really Bobby's fault—but fuck if Dean's not going to complain about it, if they make it out of here alive.

Sam's already killed two of them, neat shots right between the eyes of the erstwhile parishioners. Dean's on his back fighting a man who's slavering at the mouth, literally frothing as he tries to bite into Dean's neck, and he can hear a woman screaming somewhere out in the dark but he can't get to her now. This guy, he's huge, and Dean's about to dislocate his shoulder trying to reach the gun tucked into the back of his pants.

Two more shots and the guy on top of Dean shudders. Dean stares up at his face and, for a few horrible seconds, sanity washes into the guy's eyes and he just looks confused, until the froth in his mouth flecks with blood and he crashes down onto Dean's chest. He loses all his breath, starts shoving at the suddenly-dead weight. He doesn't realize that the woman's screaming has cut off until he hears, "Well, Dean Winchester. I knew you were a bitch, but necrophilia? That seems a bit much."

The body flops off of him of its own volition, but he's still pinned on his back, stuck there in the aisle of the church. A man's leaning against one of the pews in front of him, smiling, and Dean doesn't need to see the eyes flick black to know this is their demon.

"I always admired you in action, you know," it says, tongue running over the meatsuit's teeth. "But I liked it better when it was you on the rack, I think. Better view."

"You gonna talk me to death?" Dean arches an eyebrow, as best he can. God, where the hell is Sam?  "I'm gonna have to get one of these nice people to put me out of my misery."

Its smile only gets wider, of course. Forty years of dealing with demons, Dean thinks he should know better than to try to banter with them by now. It comes a little closer, but the pressure keeping Dean down lessens not a bit. The meatsuit is an older guy—maybe fifty, a little paunchy, with eyes dark enough that Dean can't tell if they're black or _black_.

"I just wanted to commend Alastair's star pupil. Was wondering if maybe you'd be coming back down to show us all the ropes, now that the boss has been put down." Dean sucks in a breath, stays quiet. Its eyes are gleaming in a way he recognizes and there's no point trying to talk his way out of this. "Maybe I need to make you remember how fun it can be."

He's expecting pain. Flesh opening under invisible blades, the twist when something unseen tries to separate your bones from each other. He doesn't expect his head to slam back into the ground, for the demon to be suddenly crouching over his chest, fingertips digging into his temples. "Remember, Dean?" he hears, but his mind is flashing back, through a crimson-shattered darkness and searing light, a thousand thousand things he never wants to see or think of again, and yet—

The demon's laughing, high and delighted, when he comes to. "Oh, that's perfect," it says, and somehow it's on its feet again, grinning wide. Dean's panting, fists clenched so tight he hears one of his knuckles pop. "The angels really have no idea what they're doing, do they?"

"What?" Dean says, and he's so confused it's accidentally sincere. That's not—

"Dean Smith, it is so very good to meet you," it says, and Dean's mouth goes dry. "Do they know how bad it got, there at the end?" It puts on a sympathetic face. "Still pining a little for the office romance, aren't we. Those can be tough, when the relationship doesn't work out."

Something in the power keeping him down shifts. A slow roll of force pushes down over his chest, heads south over his stomach in a hot line of pressure, and he starts straining against it in earnest, because this isn't—he's been raped before, but not here, not on Earth where it would matter, and he can't—"Don't make a fuss, I just want to see," the demon says, chiding, and there is absolutely nothing he can do when his belt snaps open, when the flies of his jeans rip apart and his hips lift and—

There's a gasp and all of the force enveloping him tears away in an instant, leaves him cold and panting on the church floor. He shoves his shirt down to cover his crotch, scrambles up and back and lifts his head to see the demon frozen, eyes huge and black and fire flickering under its skin, because behind it stands Sam, and Sam's hand is outstretched.

"I see the bitch's stud finally arrived," it manages, but the last word is almost lost as something strangles it, the meatsuit's face going dark red and blotchy. Dean wants to stand up, wants to stab the fucker in the chest and watch the light flicker out of its eyes, but his legs aren't quite working, because he's watching Sam. He doesn't say anything, doesn't threaten or gloat—he just stands there, Dean's little brother, one hand clenched in a fist at his side and the other flat-palmed in the air ten feet away from the demon, his face set and implacable while darkness pours out of its mouth, fire lighting up the dry wooden boards at its feet, until the last bit of smoke sputters out and the meatsuit drops, dead, to the floor between them.

It's quiet. Sam's chest lifts in a huge breath, and when he turns his eyes on Dean it's all Dean can do to look away, to struggle to his feet with one hand keeping his jeans and shirt in a knot in front of his crotch. "Did you kill it?" he says, and he's not sure how his voice is so even.

He's looking away, at the knocked-over pews and scattered bodies, barely lit up in the moonlight pouring in the open door and windows. It's a shock when Sam's suddenly right there, huge, close enough to touch. "Dean," he says.

He looks up, because what choice does he have, and Sam's eyes are dark, pupils enormous, but at least they aren't black edge-to-edge. He opens his mouth without a clue of what to say, but then Sam's hands come down on his arms, walk him backwards until he hits the wall next to the broken-open door. "Sam, what—" he says, but Sam's hands slide down to his wrists, strong and implacable.

"Let me see." Dean flinches, before he can stop himself, and Sam's expression shifts a little. "I just want to see," Sam says, a low echo, and Dean shuts his eyes tight, breath caught and shaking in his chest. A hand comes down to cover his fist, long fingers wrapping around and under his, a thumb stroking over his hammering pulse. Sam could make him do it, he thinks. He could, but he isn't. His fist unclenches.

He's still curled up around himself, shoulders hunched in and back to the wall. Sam nudges his jacket out of the way, thumbs up the hem of his shirt, overshirt, until he's touching bare skin. There's a blast of cool air as the ruined fly parts, as the jeans come down, and then the hands stop moving—hell, it sounds like Sam stops breathing altogether.

"God, Dean," he hears, but the blood is roaring in his ears and he's sure his face is scarlet, and all he wants to do is shove Sam off, haul himself back to the Impala and drive out of here, get miles away from where Sam's touching him, from where Sam's looking down at a stretch of slick pink satin, something Dean Winchester would never wear, should never wear, something he should rather die than be caught dead in.

Dean Smith wore these, sometimes. When he felt like it. When he wanted to. He had a couple of pairs, some in light cotton, some in silk and lace, and some like these, just pretty scraps of satin, big enough because he bought them for himself, didn't shamefully steal them from a girl. That day, Dean Smith had worn the pink pair, the ones with the dark pink ribbon and the high cut on the sides, and he'd pulled up his slacks over the top, he'd tucked in his nice blue shirt and put on his favorite tie, and no one could have suspected a thing. Only, then it was that night, and Sam Wesson had pushed him face-first into the bathroom door, and he'd nearly forgotten until Sam was shoving his pants down, and there was a pause before long curious fingers were smoothing over his hips, snapping the elastic a little, making his breath come short and labored and humiliated—

Just like now, and he half-expects Sam to start cooing something like Sam Wesson did then, to say _it's okay_ and palm him, tell him everything he wants to hear, but this isn't Sam Wesson, is it. This is Sam Winchester, Dean's _brother_ , and Sam Winchester gets a hand on Dean's neck and pushes his face up and kisses him, not hard, but with clear, shocking intent. Dean's mouth falls open, taking it, and Sam's other hand digs into his hip, over the line of his underwear, and Dean wonders distantly if it's going to leave bruises.

When Sam pulls back Dean feels the cold air on his mouth like a shock. "Pull up your pants," Sam says, "and bring the car around to the front of the church."

Dean opens his eyes. He's still breathing hard, can barely think. Sam's lit up in the moonlight, but Dean can't read his face, can't—he doesn't know what's happening. The fingers bite a little harder into his hip before Sam lets him go, steps away. "Go on, Dean," he says, a little more gently, and Dean sucks in a breath, nods, goes.

 

They take the 256 back north, passing by dozens of little forgettable towns that flicker through the dark Kentucky woods. Dean's clutching hard at the wheel, driving on automatic at exactly nine miles over the speed limit. Sam's silent on his side of the seat, but Dean's aware of him in every particular, aware of his breathing and every shift of muscle, the smell of smoke clinging from where Sam torched the church with its dead members inside it.

There's a motel in Corbin, off the I-75. Cheap rooms, but clean. Sam talks to the squint-eyed woman in the office while Dean waits in the car out front, his hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. He wonders what she'd say, if she knew.

Sam comes out, leans into the open window. "Eighteen, on the other side. You can park in the back, I'll open up the room."

Dean nods, but Sam's already gone, walking away down the sidewalk between the buildings until Dean can't see him anymore.

There's a second, watching Sam's back disappear into the dark, that Dean considers driving away. Just leaving Sam here, getting on the 75 and fleeing into the night. North or south, wouldn't matter. But to what? Where could he go?

He gets the Impala settled, hauls their bags onto his shoulder. The little plaque on their door is crooked, the eight almost completely sideways. The handle turns smoothly under his hand, which is a surprise, and he nudges the door open, drops their bags onto the mud-brown carpet before he sees the single bed.

A hand comes down on his shoulder, turns him until he presses back into the door, until it latches closed under his bodyweight. The light's on in the bathroom, just enough coming through the half-cracked doorway that Dean can see Sam's gun sitting on the bedside table, his jacket slung over the ratty armchair in the corner.

"Dean," he hears, and he wrenches his darting eyes back to center. Sam's in just his t-shirt and jeans, boots gone. Dean would scold about that, about getting vulnerable when he's all alone, but Sam's looking down at him, dark and intense, and he remembers that Sam's dangerous enough just as himself, these days. He pulls in a long breath through his nose, tries to calm down a little—but then Sam's kissing him again, and there's no hope for it.

His jacket is pushed off, with his overshirt, to fall with a thump to the floor. Sam's hands stroke restlessly up and down his arms, over the goosebumps Dean doesn't know how to stop. Sam's still not being rough and Dean doesn't know why he keeps expecting it, but his muscles are jumping in reaction anyway, hands closing tightly over nothing but air. Sam licks into his mouth, scrapes light teeth over his bottom lip, and long fingers hold onto his hips, keep his jeans right where they're supposed to be as Sam starts walking them backwards, toward the bed.

He's pushed down to the edge of the mattress, blinking, lips feeling used and sore. "Boots," Sam says, like that means anything, and goes for his duffle, rummaging through. Dean breathes for a few seconds, and Sam looks up at him. "Boots," he says again, more firmly, and Dean nods, bends down to fumble at his laces.

Sam's back just as he finishes pulling off his socks and he finds himself yanked unceremoniously up to his feet again, turned around so that Sam's the one sitting, Dean standing between his spread knees. The bathroom's behind Dean, so he's sort of blocking the light from reaching Sam, but there's still enough to see how Sam's eyes are raking over him. It's not subtle.

Sam's hands slide up his thighs, over his hips. He peels Dean's waistband back down—easy enough with nothing to hold it—and just... looks. Dean squeezes his eyes closed.

"You have no idea," Sam says. A touch runs over the ribbon, over the little bow that sits a few inches below Dean's navel. "These are the same pair, right?"

Dean has no idea how he's supposed to answer. Sam shoves his jeans further down, until they drop, then pulls him forward so he has to step out of them. The air in the room is cold on his legs and he shivers, then shivers harder as Sam's hands smooth up the backs of his thighs until they meet the elastic edge.

"Dean," Sam says, but this time it sounds like a command.

"Yeah," Dean manages.

"Thought so." Fingers nudge under the seams, grazing his asscheeks in a long, slow stroke. "God, I remember—I'd never seen anything so hot. You, with your pinstripes and your suspenders and your Master Cleanse, shaking like a—" Sam cuts himself off and Dean tries not to imagine whatever word goes there. Easy when he can feel Sam's breath against his stomach, where Sam's shoved his shirt up again. "I think this might be better. Your Metallica t-shirt and your panties."

 _God_. Just the word in Sam's mouth—Dean doesn't know how he hasn't caught fire. He's still shivering, in random bursts, doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"Fuck, look how hard you are," Sam says, and Dean makes a horrible sound in the back of his throat, and then there's a flurry of movement and Sam's suddenly kissing him again, bending his head back with the force of it, and—yeah, this is what he'd expected, Sam's tongue shoving in and the clash of their teeth, hands biting into him so hard it hurts.

He's shoved back onto the bed, bouncing a little against the slick polyester coverlet. Sam's staring down at him, chest heaving a little, and he remembers this, how Sam Wesson had flipped him around against the door, had stared at him all undone and rumpled and about to burst with how much he _wanted_. This Sam hauls his own t-shirt over his head, drops it to the floor before he knees up on the bed. He grabs Dean by the thighs and shoves, sends him skidding up until his head's against the pillows, and Dean about comes out of his skin when Sam drops down between his legs, when he pushes one thigh up and back so Dean’s wide-open, spread.

He fists his hands into the coverlet, polyester creaking in his grip, when Sam presses his mouth to the place where the elastic waistband cuts a little into Dean's stomach, breath coming hot and damp through the fabric. His dick is so hard he wants to cry, to beg Sam to do something, but the words don't come.

"How often do you wear them?" It's a mumble against fabric and skin, but Dean can hear him clearly enough. "I know you couldn't have brought any more back with you, 'cause we left in the clothes we had."

A thumb traces the inside seam down past where his balls are clutched up tight, down to where the fabric  curves back over the swell of his ass. Dean shudders, pulls his teeth out of his lip so he won't make himself bleed.

"The seams are a little frayed. We could get you more, if you wanted." Oh—finally, fucking _finally_ , a big warm palm lands on his dick, pushes up in a rolling, firm move. There's a kiss of air as the tip pops out over the top of the waistband and he gulps breath, can feel how wet he is. "Dean, tell me. You want more? Did you have more?"

"Yeah," he gets out, and he blinks up at the ceiling, feels moisture run down his temples. "Had a bunch."

"Tell me," with another slow, hard roll of the palm, glancing over the tip and smearing wet onto his belly.

So Dean gasps it out, in fits and starts, thighs shaking under the pressure. Cotton for everyday, just plain black, not so different from his boxer-briefs. The silk and lace, a little scratchy, but so delicate he felt like he was barely wearing anything at all, balls tucked up tight and soft against his body.

"What was your favorite?" he hears, and Sam sounds strange, voice a little thick, but Dean can hardly think and just answers, says, "Satin, they were pale blue, boyshorts, and I'd wear them around the house while I cooked—" and there's a weird sound from Sam and he's getting kissed, all of a sudden, Sam surging up over him with his hand tucked tight around where Dean's dick is straining his panties, and Dean's eyes are still wet and his chest hurts, but damn if Sam isn't kissing him like the world's about to end, and Dean lets go of the coverlet and wraps his arms around Sam's neck, holds on tight because his head is spinning.

Sam gets lube from somewhere, wets his fingers and slides them under the crotch of the panties, rubs at the space behind his balls, over his hole, makes everything wet and slick until Dean breaks away from his mouth to bang his head back against the pillow.

"Yeah?" Sam's saying, but it's hardly a question.

"Oh my God," Dean says, and he says it again when two fingers push in, fast and sudden, making Dean arch halfway off the bed to bury his face in Sam's throat.

Sam shifts, pushes his knees under Dean's thighs so he's spread even further (and what—he's still wearing his jeans, Jesus Christ), then pulls one of Dean's arms from around his neck, guides his hand down under his own ass.

"Pull those aside for me," Sam says, and Dean hardly recognizes his voice at all, "let me see," and Dean does, of course he does, he pulls at the crotch so Sam can see his own fingers buried in Dean, until the elastic is biting into the soft skin of his sac and it kind of hurts. He wants to let go, but he doesn't, because when he manages to look at Sam's face he can see what it's doing to him.

Sam's sweating, the light gleaming over the rounded muscles of his shoulders as he really starts to give it to Dean, fingers spreading and pushing deep, and Dean keeps his free hand on the back of Sam's neck, tries to ground himself a little as it gets harder and harder to concentrate. Sam twists his hand around, brushes his fingers up against that place that makes everything so warm and tight and—then he's rearing back, breaking Dean's hold on his neck so he can fish around on the bed for the lube. He clicks it open and drizzles a long wet line of it over his own moving fingers, over Dean's hole and thighs and the stretched front of the panties, up over the wet head of Dean's dick, then drops it to the bed, heedless of the mess.

"Fuck," Sam says, surprised, like someone else just did that. "You're—you're soaked." Dean looks down at himself, at the satin all ruined and dark and straining, and the sound he makes is humiliating, but it makes Sam look up at his face. "Jesus, Dean."

The fingers yank out and Sam runs them all over the mess of Dean's crotch, so they glance over his too-tender balls and his neglected dick to gather up all the wet they can before they shove back in, three this time, and Dean doesn't even feel the sting, just lets his head loll back and takes it.

When Sam Wesson fucked Dean Smith, there wasn't nearly so much foreplay. Sam soothed his humiliation at being caught out, petted his hips and smoothed his hands over his satin-clad ass, but then he shoved the panties down, slicked Dean up with spit and precome and then just gave it to him, hard and fast up against the door, so hard it clanked in its frame, so hard Dean struggled to keep his face from bashing into the damn thing. He pushed back, tried to give as good as he got, but it was an intense, needy fuck, both of them still high on the argument and the hunt. Dean buried his face in the crook of his elbow and pushed his right hand down, rolled his panties down over his dick so he wouldn't ruin them and jerked himself to Sam's rhythm. Eager to come, but still in control.

Dean is anything but in control. Sam's leaning over him again, propped up on one hand, and Dean knows he's staring, at his fingers disappearing into Dean or Dean's twitching and helpless dick or at whatever expressions are flickering over his face, but Dean's got his eyes closed tight again, he doesn't have to know.

"Are you gonna come?" Sam says, and his breath is right up against Dean's face, against his open, panting mouth. "Could you come like this, just getting fingered?"

Dean shakes his head against the pillow, and Sam laughs, breathless. "I think you could," Sam says, "I think—God, I want—"

The fingers yank out again, with a slick squelching sound Dean cringes away from, but before anything else the mattress creaks and then he's being flipped over onto his belly, his dick glancing against the bed with a shock of pressure before he's being hauled up, onto his knees. He drags his arms up underneath him, tries to struggle up onto his elbows, but he's shaking too much, dizzy with how long he's been hard, how long he's been waiting to come. There's a buzz of a zipper behind him, and then denim's scraping up against the insides of his knees, pushing them further apart, and then harsh fingers scrabble at the waist of his panties, push them down to just under the curve of his ass, and then he doesn't think about anything else because there's pressure, thick and wet and familiar, and then—and then—

"Fuck, you feel even better than before," Sam's saying, somewhere above him, and Dean just opens up, easy, lets Sam shove in deep in one steady push, so far different from last time. He's making a noise, this long continuous groan into the damp pillow, and Sam pulls out and fucks back in again and Dean feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

"I can feel—oh, God." Hands grab Dean by the biceps and haul him up, a huge dizzy pull that drags him up so his back is against Sam's chest. His knees splay out even further and he sinks back onto Sam's dick, too deep. Sam groans, runs his hands restlessly under Dean's t-shirt. He tugs at the amulet, a twisting tease, before his hands settle back on Dean's hips, hook under the satin. Sam mouths at Dean's hairline, mumbles against the back of his ear. "I can feel them, every time I—" and he shoves in again, clutching at the panties even tighter, and Dean yelps, can't help it. His own hands flail back to grab at Sam's hips, grasping nervelessly at the denim, and Sam laughs again, says, "Yeah, hang on," and then it's the fuck Dean remembers, intense and hard and absolutely everything he wants, all he can think about.

Sam's so strong. Dean's practically boneless on his lap, head tipped back against Sam's shoulder and thighs useless, so Sam's carrying the force of the fuck all his own. He's got Dean's shoulder clamped in an underhand grip with one hand, the other gripped hard on Dean's hip with his fingers tucked under the panties, and his breath is coming in huge powerful pants against Dean's skin but he shows no sign of stopping. It hurts, but the pressure’s just right. His hips are one long relentless roll, and Dean gives himself up to it, completely.

The room reeks of the two of them, the bed creaking so loudly it almost masks the slap of Sam's skin on his. He's going to have bruises even there, he thinks, and then Sam swears, stops moving just long enough to fumble between them, yanks Dean's t-shirt off over his head. The amulet nearly comes off too, but Dean grabs for it, instinct letting him keep it where it belongs. "I need—" Sam says, and hugs him tight around the chest, snaps his hips up and covers Dean's hand on the amulet, drops his other hand to cover Dean's crotch—not jerking him, just the tight warm pressure of his hand, huge through the wet satin, and then Dean's coming, out of nowhere, huge wet pulses that smear over his stomach, dribble over Sam's hand and soak the panties even worse. His hips shove down into Sam's, greedy. Sam groans, biting it into the naked skin of Dean's shoulder, and then holds him still, carrying his weight half off the bed as he fucks back in, harder and shakier, for God knows how long until his thighs are trembling against the backs of Dean's and he's heaving Dean back down into his chest, pressing them together in one long, seamless line.

It's a long time before Sam's grip loosens up. He runs his hands in long, soothing strokes up Dean's arms, and Dean slowly becomes aware that he's shaking a little, aftershocks hitting him hard. A kiss is pressed to the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, to a spot just behind his ear, and then Sam grabs his hips, tilts until the whole spent length of him slides out. Dean flinches, and Sam kisses him again, tips him forward until he lands on his chest, knees still tucked underneath.

There's a sharp intake of breath. "Jesus," he hears, and then there are fingers at his hole, catching the spill as Sam's come starts to drip free. The fingers slide inside, easy because he's so open, but it hurts and he makes a weird, guttural noise.

When Sam Wesson had finally finished, with a grunt and a slam of the hips that nearly unbalanced them both, Dean Smith's muscles were already aching with satisfaction. Sam slumped against his back for a moment until Dean shoved, and then it was a muted groan, a mutual fumble, and Dean hauled his panties and slacks up over his used, aching ass. He’d leaked Sam's come all night. Tried not to think too much about it when he wore those panties again the next day, but he'd had this idea that, _maybe—_

The fingers slide out and go to the waist of the panties, drag them slowly back up into their place. He eases his legs out from beneath himself, stretches out carefully and hears his knees pop.

Dean must time travel, because the next thing he knows he's being turned over, onto his back. The bedside lamp is on and Sam's dragging a wet cloth over his stomach. Not gentle and tender, but not rough either. Sam's jeans are off, finally, and he's frowning when Dean catches his hand, makes him stop.

"Still wearing 'em, Sam, not much point in cleaning up," Dean points out. His voice is scratchy, and he wonders belatedly just how much noise he made. He ought to be too exhausted to be embarrassed but, hey, he can feel his face heating up just the same.

Sam's still staring down at his stomach, but he drops the cloth, spreads his hand low over Dean's belly. His pinky slides over the soaked-wet satin and Dean swallows, tries not to twist away in shame.

"I want this," Sam says, after a little while.

Dean's eyes jump up to his face. Sam's hair is wet, with sweat or because he splashed water on his face, Dean doesn't know. It's tucked behind his ears, so there's no obstruction to the view of the furrowed brow, the dark and inscrutable eyes. Dean remembers a little boy, staring up at him with eyes huge and guileless, that bizarre mix of green and brown and blue, and something in him just cracks, folds up and cries.

There are too many versions of them to keep track of, and Dean's not sure he wants to anymore.

"I want this," Sam repeats, but this time he looks right into Dean's eyes. "All of it."

In the hospital, before Zachariah spirited him away, Dean remembers a conversation with Castiel. Everything hurt—everything, and Dean had just snapped, had cried, had wanted nothing more than for everything to just... end.

Sam killed Alastair. Killed, not sent back. There's an important distinction there. The hand covering Dean's belly could bite in, could rip in through Dean's guts and crush his heart, and sometimes Dean thinks it's going to. Wouldn’t be just a metaphor, this time. But Sam's still watching him, serious, the line of his mouth resolute.

"Me too," Dean says, finally. His heart's beating too fast, but he tries to speak calmly. "But, Sammy." He licks his lips, makes sure he keeps meeting Sam's eyes. "You've got to be with me."

He doesn't stress the words quite like he means to. He hopes Sam gets it.

Sam watches him for another minute, searching his face. Dean's sure he's bright red, knows he's sweating, but for once he isn't trying to figure Sam out, isn't about to push either way. He's tired, and he just wants...

"Okay," Sam says. His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat. He smiles down at Dean, then, and for the first time in a long time Dean believes it. He leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth, pulls back just enough that he can look him straight in the eyes. "Okay. I'm with you."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't really sure how to tag this. I kind of look at this as still being dark!Sam, but I think it's ambiguous enough that you could pretend everything's going to have a happy ending. Would love to hear what you think!


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